We all load into the Bronco a while later (point: Everett, always Everett, with his stupid vintage car) and head to the marina to catch a sailboat with Captain Isaiah, the same man who ran a discounted special that first summer here, when we were twenty-two and the worst thing Everett and I had ever done was lie about when we met.Howwe met.
The salt spray sent back by the hull of the boat calms my bruised ego, but only a little. Everett is talking with Gabe, apparently impervious to my presence, so I settle in between Davi and Laurel on the cushioned seat at the back of the boat. Davi passes me a glass of the same sparkling wine we’ve been drinking on this boat since we first started coming here, made by the captain’s cousin. Now he seems to be running an aboveboard wine business, rather than passing out experimental basement hooch.
“Thanks,” I say as I take the glass a little too forcefully from him.
“Looks like you could use it,” he mutters. I ignore his comment and toss back half the wine. “And looks like we’ll need more,” Davi says before standing up and wandering off to find some.
I turn to Laurel, but she’s stiff, clearly uncomfortable. I settle back next to her and raise my glass to the sky.
“Isn’t this beautiful?” I ask.
“Beautiful,” she says shortly.
“Remember when this wine used to give you the worsthangover?” I ask, probing lightly. If we’re not allowed to ask Laurel how she’s doing, and we’re not supposed to ask what happened, and if I can’t change the facts ofwhythings are so tense right now, then the only option remaining seems like distraction. “Hopefully he’s gotten that sugar content under control.”
“Right,” Laurel says. She hasn’t looked at me.
I stay quiet for a minute, chewing on my lip. Across the deck, Everett laughs at something Gabe said, the sound seeming to drift directly from his mouth to my ears, pulling my gaze toward him. I stare at his profile, seething. The wind ripples through his hair, the sun catching on the golden hues in it, the tendons in his neck flexing when he turns his head to look at something on the water that Gabe points out. I hate that I once buried my face against that neck and found comfort there, or that I used to marvel at the color of his hair while we all played volleyball on the beach. I hate the way that—
“What are you doing,” Laurel says, brusquely drawing me out of my furious reminiscing.
“What?” I ask, turning quickly to look back at her. Even if she sounds angry, I’m thrilled she’s finally looking at me. “Nothing.”
“You grind your teeth when you look at him, did you know that?” she asks. “You only do that when you’re mad. You sound like you’re going to break a molar.”
I brush this comment away with a wave of my hand. “Just stressing about the cookbook.”
“No.” Laurel crosses her arms over her chest. “I know you, and I know you’re not stressed about the cookbook. You and Everett have been fighting since we got here.”
“We’re notfighting,” I say, though I can’t totally deny the accusation. “Bickeringis probably more accurate.”
“No,” Laurel says again, the word sending a wash of shamethrough me, like a child scolded. “You two used to bicker, but that was sweet, like you were an old married couple or something. That was when you two still liked each other. When you used to flirt with each other and think that none of the rest of us noticed.”
My chest goes hot. I don’t know what to say to her. There’s so much unsaid in her short speech, so many things I thought we just wouldn’t acknowledge this week. But there’s also a kernel of truth to it, I know, and my gaze is drawn briefly back to Everett. For a minute, I try to picture what it would be like to just be friendly with him again. I swear I do.
I look back at Laurel. “You’re right,” I say.
Her expression, which has been cloudy up to this point, darkens further. “Are you two seriously still mad at each other?” she asks. “It was, like, a thousand years ago.”
The words slice a little deeper than I want them to, but I’m not sure I can explain the reason for that to myself, let alone Laurel. If I could own up to the reason why, after five years, I can’t seem to fully move on, maybe this trip would feel different. Instead, I force a smile. “We’ll stop arguing,” I say. “I promise.”
Laurel looks unconvinced. She shrugs, dropping her sunglasses from the top of her head over her eyes, and sits back against the cushions.
Davi flops down on Laurel’s other side, back with more wine. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and lifts it high above his head, searching for a signal as mine chimes in my own pocket. I pull it out to a text from Hank—Happy Tuesday! Sailboat this afternoon?My heart sinks, guilt twisting through me at the same time Davi’s attention jerks toward me. “You have a signal?” he asks.
“I think it’s already gone,” I say even as he leans over Laurel toward me, phone extended.
“Oh my god,” she says, shoving his arm away. “Can you stop responding to emails for two seconds.”
“I’m waiting to hear—”
“About the promotion, I know,” Laurel grumbles. “They won’t be able to tell you it’s yours if your phone is at the bottom of the ocean.”
“And why is my phone at the bottom of the ocean, Laur?” Davi says, pocketing his phone and slinging an arm around her shoulders. I see her suppress a slip of a smile as he squeezes her arm, jostling her jokingly. “Is someone grumpy enough to put it there?”
She shoves him off as I stand, wandering in what I hope is an unassuming manner over to the railing, biding my time. When they seem fittingly immersed in conversation, Laurel’s mood vastly brightened when it’s just Davi, and not me,sitting next to her, I turn and march over to where Everett and Gabe are still talking.
“I need to talk to you,” I say. I grab Everett’s hand and yank him, stumbling along behind me without looking at either of them.
